


Trick of the Light

by SincerelyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, At least that's one hypothesis about what's happening, Awkward Sexual Situations, Clueless Fucking, First Time, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos
Summary: ‘You could fuck me,’ Sherlock had said, and it’d been so fucking absurd, so completely and utterly insane that John had laughed, had giggled in the most undignified way, and yet they’d ended up here, ended up with John tugging Sherlock towards him, pinning him down onto the bed and grinding their bodies together until it no longer feels absurd and he no longer cares if it’s insane.





	Trick of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse or feasible explaination as to why I wrote this.
> 
> I wish I knew why a discarded, unfinished ficlet I posted on tumblr stating it might be the worst thing I've ever written suddenly needed to be edited, finished and expand into over 4000 words of PWP.
> 
> One might say that I wanted to try something new.

With the flick of his finger, Sherlock hits the switch and and with a clicking sound, the lights are out.

The only light left in the small dorm room is the glow from the street lamp outside that’s seeping in through the window, painting parts of the wall and ceiling in a warm yellow tone and leaving the rest of the room in shadows.

There’s just enough light for John to see that Sherlock’s hands are steady as he pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it aside, but it’s too dim to tell if there’s any flicker of hesitation in his face.

Bare chested, Sherlock looks even younger, and for a moment, there’s something heavy and uncomfortable in John’s stomach, but whatever it is, it instantly dissolves as Sherlock breaks the silence by hissing an impatient ‘ _ will you get on with it? _ ’, his deep voice and bad manners enough to bring John back to a reality in which Sherlock might be four years younger and most likely lack any kind of experience in what they’re about to do, but where John will still always be three steps behind.

Sherlock had hit the switch, leaving them with only the scattered light from the window and evidently expecting John to take it from there.

Right. He knows how to do this. He has done this on various occasions with several different people, and most things ought to translate just fine even to these particular circumstances.

Closing most of the distance between them, John comes to stand in front of Sherlock, mere inches separating them as John begins to unbutton his own shirt. Tilting his head slightly backwards, he tries to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s eyes, but shadows and too long curls obscure most of his face.

With the October night outside and the heating in the building being less than effective, John can feel goosebumps raise all over his bare skin as he manages to finally get his shirt off, wondering what step to take next, if it’s better to first rid themselves of all their clothing and then continue to touching or if–

The hitch in Sherlock’s breath is barely audible as John’s fingers come to rest on the small of his back, nudging Sherlock closer.

Sherlock takes a determined step towards him, managing to both completely invade John’s space and take up all the air in the room at the same time.

_ ‘You could fuck me,’ Sherlock had said, his voice impassive as he continued to rosin his bow, and John had giggled, because hearing such dirty words in Sherlock’s posh voice had simply been too hilarious and John had been drunk enough not to care about how stupid he always sounds when he giggles. _

The idea had felt much less ludicrous when John had been drunk enough to be talked into it, but that had been several days ago, and so he really ought to have sobered up by now and--

John lets his fingers trail over tendons, and beneath his fingertips he can feel Sherlock’s pulse, elevated but steady.

They haven’t discussed kissing, haven’t really discussed much of anything, but it would feel strange not to, and so John raises his other hand as well, letting his fingers thread into carefully tousled curls, angling Sherlock’s head down and tilting his own face up.

Neither of them make a move to close the gap between their mouths. Instead, their breaths are left to mingle in the air between them, and under John’s fingers, Sherlock’s scalp and the skin of his nape both feel so very warm in contrast to the cold air. It’s enough to make that something in John’s stomach make itself known again, and John swallows hard before Sherlock seems to grow bored of breathing in John’s air, and huffs in annoyance.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but whatever it is that he’s about to say, John will never know. Before Sherlock has the chance to utter more than two vowels, John’s mouth is on his. Sherlock’s body tenses up for just a second, but then his muscles seem to relax and as John’s lips start to move against his, Sherlock’s hands come to rest lightly on John’s hips as if in attempt to steady them both.

It’s absurd, the feeling of having his best friend’s flat chest pressed against his own. Just as absurd as the sensation that jolts through John’s body as Sherlock’s lips part, letting John’s tongue into his mouth in a way that makes John feel, if only for a distorted second, like Sherlock would be willing to accept anything that John might want to give. John hesitantly explores the inside of Sherlock's mouth, withdrawing only to return again, and soon Sherlock starts to move his own lips against John’s each time John’s tongue withdraws.

There’s something terrifyingly intimate about the way the only sounds audible in the gloomy, chilly room are those coming from lips and tongues as they part and meet, something almost obscene about the way the silence around them makes these sounds clearly distinguishable, almost loud.

They’ve known each other for over nine months, and yet John hadn’t known if Sherlock had ever kissed anyone. It had simply been one of those things that John had never thought to ask.

Now, as seconds pass by and John’s hand comes to rest against Sherlock’s cheek, angling his head slightly to the side, the answer to that question is evident. Sherlock is a fast learner, and John knows that this is how he does something the first time he tries it; starting by observing, then beginning to copy what he’s observed, his movements precise and his focus complete as he learns to master almost any skill that is interesting enough to be worth the effort.

John feels a bit like one of Sherlock’s experiments, like a carefully studied potion, and for some reason, it’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation.

There's a shiver running through John's body as the first low sound escapes from Sherlock's mouth and spills into his own. It scatters there, dissolves and dilutes with shared breaths and explorative touches.

From another room in the house, John can hear laughter echo as it travels through the thin walls.

Any other night, it could have been the two of them laughing, John thinks as his hand moves down Sherlock's spine. John could have been the one who made Sherlock crack into one of his strange, unexpected laughs, but tonight, John isn't that person. Tonight, John is someone else entirely.

He must be, because Sherlock turns his head away almost unnoticeable when John breaks the contact and takes a step back, creating a few inches of distance between them and Sherlock can’t be coy, because Sherlock doesn't even understand how anyone would feel ‘exposed’ or ‘stripped bare’ under his own scrutiny, and yet--

Their eyes meet, and the look of determination that meets John doesn’t resemble anything that he can remember ever having seen in Sherlock's eyes before. 

_ ‘So... that's something that you like, then?’ John had asked. ‘That. The thing you said we could-- last night.’ _

The bed is just by the window, so when John sits down on the edge of it, hearing the creak as it shifts under his weight, and he gestures to Sherlock to join him, the faint glow of the streetlamp outside provides just enough light to ensure that John doesn’t miss the way Sherlock rolls his eyes before he slumps down beside him, eliciting another creak.

With a girl, the progression from this point and onto the actual sex is something that’s fairly well mapped out in John’s mind. Both of them already half undressed and sitting next to each other on the bed, the rest of it ought to be a no-brainer, but tonight he’s not here with a girl, and he isn’t even quite himself, and there’s nothing ‘easy’ about this.

According to Sherlock, that’s exactly what this is meant to be.

Easy.

_ ‘It’d be convenient,’ Sherlock had stated cooly, briefly looking over to John before returning his attention to the screen. ‘At least if it’d stop your complaining about me ‘getting in the way’ of you getting a leg over.’ _

John gathers himself enough to turn fully towards Sherlock, letting his hand slip to the back of Sherlock’s head and up his messy hair, the strands slightly sticky with some oddly smelling product. It had been strange kissing Sherlock for the first time, and it doesn’t feel any less awkward now, but snogging is the only way John knows to move things along, to take things further in order to--

He breaks the kiss, slides his free hand down Sherlock’s chest, feeling the sparse, fine hair and the way Sherlock’s ribs expand and retract beneath his fingers.

John wants to say something then, anything that will put words on just how absurd this is for both of them, something casual along the lines of ‘I can’t believe we’re actually fucking doing this’, but he refrains, because doubtlessly Sherlock would have something very biting to say in reply to anything that trite.

Instead, John says ‘ _ take your clothes off _ ’. He must be more nervous than he feels, because what was meant to sound like a somewhat sensual suggestion comes out sounding like a challenge. 

Without a word, Sherlock gets to his feet and sheds his dark jeans, stepping out of them and then tugging them off, leaving them in a discarded heap on the floor. As he straightens up, standing there in front of John’s bed in nothing but his pants, Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s and he gives John a look of something akin to defiance, one that clearly tells John that the challenge is duly accepted.

Of course. He should have figured.

If there’s one thing that’d make Sherlock actually take an interest in helping John in moving things along, that’d be it. A challenge. A game in which the rules are a bit more well-defined than they usually are in these situations, and in which you can either win or lose.

John isn’t sure if that’s what sex is. At least he’s pretty sure that’s not what sex has been for him so far in his life, but Sherlock has a tendency to turn things over completely, and John is starting to get the hang of taking things at face value when it comes to Sherlock.

_ ‘You could fuck me,’ _ Sherlock had said, and it’d been so fucking absurd, so completely and utterly insane that John had laughed, had giggled in the most undignified way, and yet they’d ended up here, ended up with John tugging Sherlock towards him, pinning him down onto the bed and grinding their bodies together until it no longer feels absurd and he no longer cares if it’s insane.

It’s too base to be anything but what it is; an indigenous prelude to fucking.

Beneath him, Sherlock is hard. The feeling of an erect cock grinding against his own is foreign and perhaps it’s a bit unsettling, but the friction it provides and the way bitten-off sounds escape Sherlock’s mouth in-between fierce, heavy-handed kisses are enough to completely side-track any sense of reluctance. Grinding down against Sherlock, John realises that he could probably come from just this, the resistance and friction enough for him to--

A hand pressing up against his shoulder, signals for him to stop, and John does, shifting to his side until there’s no longer any pressure or friction where he wants it -  _ needs _ it - to be.

Opening his eyes, John’s gaze instantly falls on Sherlock’s hands, and with a fluttering sense of apprehension, he watches as Sherlock shrugs his pants off with swift movements before settling back on the bed, turning his head slightly towards John, watching as John is trying not to be unsettled by his own reaction as--

John isn’t sure if he ought to be staring at it, but somehow it feels like averting his eyes would be even worse. Hovering just above a nest of scattered dark hair, Sherlock’s cock is smaller than his own, and yet it still manages to look intimidating as it lies there, hard and leaking and so undeniably--

When John manages to tear his eyes away a few seconds later, Sherlock regards him with a curious expression. Then he shifts a bit, lets his legs fall apart and motions for John to lean down, come closer. For a moment, John almost expects a kiss, but then Sherlock’s whispering in his ear, telling him to ‘ _ get the fuck on with it’ _ with an insinuating voice, sliding his finger along John’s jaw before letting his hand drop back against the bed, waiting.

It’s such a strange performance that John can’t really tell if it’s an act or if this is simply what Sherlock’s like when stripped bare and suffering the chemical influence of sexual arousal.

There’s some awkward shifting before John can reach the lube on the night table. With a click, he opens the bottle and in the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Sherlock, who is shifting to his side to get up on his elbow, clearly preparing to roll over on his stomach. 

Without thinking, John puts a steady hand on Sherlock’s hip, stopping him before he manages to reposition himself, holding him there.

Sherlock looks annoyed, his voice giving away the just how frustrated he is by the disruption.  _ ‘It’s supposedly easier if the bottom--’  _ Sherlock starts, but John interrupts with a short, huffing laugh, and his own voice sounds strange even to himself as he speaks.  _ ‘It’s not like any of this was ever going to be easy anyway.’ _

Letting his head fall back with an exasperated sigh, Sherlock looks away, spreading his legs further and putting his arm over his forehead, partially shielding his eyes from the light from the window and leaving his face obscured by shadows.

Looking down at Sherlock, John takes it all in; the hair under his arm and his prominent ribs, the jut of the hipbone, his still erect cock and finally, he eyes the way Sherlock’s legs are parted, spread open, exposing his lightly furred balls and the first hints of cleft.

_ ‘I don’t mind,’ Sherlock had said. _

Sherlock’s feet come to rest on John’s shoulders as John gets ready to work him open. The position exposes the small, furled opening between the buttocks, and it would have been easier like Sherlock suggested, with him on his hands and knees, but John adjusts Sherlock’s legs, making him tilt his pelvis just a bit more, stuffing the crumpled duvet under Sherlock’s bottom to help him maintain the position.

He could ask now, could ask if Sherlock’s really sure about this. He could, but instead, simply traces the rim of Sherlock’s arsehole before starting to massage and press against the sphincter with practised ease. 

This is something he knows, something he feels comfortable with even despite the lack of latex gloves that are usually part of this procedure in medical school. This is safe ground. It’s like another switch has been flicked, and suddenly, John finds that he does know what to do next; that from here, he knows how to proceed.

He pushes through the resistance of the muscle, and then tip of his finger is inside. 

Sherlock’s body is tense as he works the first finger deeper in, but John remains strangely calm as he watches the digit disappear into Sherlock’s body, into Sherlock, and the tightness around his finger makes something uncoil low in his abdomen. 

Beneath him, Sherlock turns his head to the other side, then back again, his arm still flung over his face. John catches a dim glimpse of Sherlock biting his lip, the muscles of his neck tensing with each of John’s movements.

It’s strange, watching Sherlock crack just a fraction, watching him shatter only the slightest bit.

If that’s even what’s happening. John can’t be sure, Sherlock’s features are mostly cast in shadows and whatever John thinks he’s seeing might simply be a trick of the light.

Regardless, John feels a thrill at the mere thought, feels a thrill as he’s watching his best friend struggle not to let any reactions slip when John pushes his finger further in, moving inside Sherlock’s body.

As for John, Sherlock is somehow already inside of him, having worked his way in under John’s skin early on in their friendship, probably without even being aware of doing so. This might be the only way Sherlock is capable to let John in, and it shouldn't surprise John that if Sherlock would let him in, it’d be in the most literal sense, and for a reason that can’t possibly make any sense even to Sherlock himself. And perhaps John is simply making too much out of it, is getting too heady from watching Sherlock adjusting to two fingers, then three, willing himself to relax as John pushes in, nudges his prostate with each thrust and revelling in the way Sherlock’s body tenses and shivers around him.

When John finally pulls his fingers out, Sherlock’s body goes pliant, the legs draped over John’s shoulders feel suddenly heavy as the muscles relax, but there’s no sound of a breath being let out, and perhaps that’s one reason behind the slightly surreal feeling that John’s had ever since Sherlock had flicked the switch and left them in the shattered, dim light; the strange muteness of it all. The almost complete lack of the sounds he’s used to in these situations; the moans, groans, pleading, urging--

He shifts a bit closer, reaching the condom on the night table and tearing the package open, rolling the condom on before looking down at Sherlock.

Minutes ago, Sherlock had said that there were ways that were supposedly easier than doing this face to face, and now, John begins to wonder for whom it’d be easier for, and in what way. Sherlock has let his arm fall from where at had been resting over his forehead, and his eyes are now unobscured as he returns John’s gaze, raising his eyebrows and his chin expectantly. Sherlock’s arsehole is stretched open, wet from lube, his skin is slightly damp from sweat and his legs are hooked over John’s shoulders. It shouldn’t be possible, John thinks, to look so imperious like this. And yet.

A smile curls slowly at the side of Sherlock’s mouth, and he lowers his chin in a ghost of a nod, and first it looks almost like a dare, and then, for some reason, John finds that it transforms into something that looks like distorted bravery.

John blinks, and then it’s gone. Sherlock quirks a brow, and John answers by letting his eyes roam over Sherlock’s outstretched body beneath him, taking it all in as he lubes himself up, resisting the urge to shudder or hiss at the sensation of stroking himself. Sherlock watches his every movement intently, his eyes following the hand that slowly works John’s cock.

Letting go of his cock, John moves a few inches closer, hearing the squeak of the bed as he adjusts to find an angle that will allow him to thrust into Sherlock without having to hold himself in an awkward position. Settling in, John’s hand brush against Sherlock’s buttocks, and experimentally, he spreads his fingers and digs them into the firm flesh, grabbing Sherlock’s arse and squeezing. It’s less padded and more bony than he’s used to, the lines more angular and the skin dusted with fine hairs. He rubs, then slides his fingers down Sherlock’s cleft to trace the rim of his arsehole, feeling the now cooling lube and the slight fluttering of the muscle.

Retracting his hand, John instead takes hold of his cock and positions himself before he ventures a look at Sherlock’s face, cautiously searching for any sign of hesitance, but finding none. Their eyes meet, and what John sees is enough for him to give a small nod, mostly to himself, before he lets himself push into Sherlock, watching as the tip of his cock disappears.

It’s the first time he’s ever done it like this, the first time he’s ever watched as someone else’s arsehole stretches, adjusts to take him in. It should probably be at least moderately unsettling to consider where his fingers have been without the protective barrier of a glove, or to really think about what kind of orifice he’s currently inserting his cock into, but instead it’s just fascinating, and strangely-- hot. The arguable lewdness of it only serves to make it even more so, and the feeling is even further enhanced by the fact that this is Sherlock - that it’s Sherlock’s arsehole he’s pressing into, that he’s fucking his - male - best friend and it’s all so wrong and so complicated and--

A bitten-off groan rips through the silence and focus, and John stills, his eyes darting to Sherlock only to see that his arm is once again covering the top part of his face, but he can still read discomfort in the way Sherlock’s head is tipped back and his jaws are clenched.

He waits, watching Sherlock adjust until some of the tension has eased, then pushing forward just a bit more, listening for any sounds of discomfort.

It’s so fucking tight, and it feels nothing like a cunt. It’s not better or worse, just something else entirely, and as John bottoms out, his belly flush against the back of Sherlock’s thighs, he takes a deep, shaky breath from the strain of holding himself still and not pulling back and pushing back in immediately.

Sherlock is panting, his face slightly contorted and his body tense beneath John. The yellow light paints valleys of shadows over his body, the prominent bones making him look hollow and spindly in an almost sickly way. As he finally shifts his arm from his face, he has to blink several times before he seems to be able to properly focus his gaze. 

The look on Sherlock’s face is that of someone who’s-- taken aback. A slow, odd smile creeps up on his face, and John doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t know what to make of the strange expression, doesn’t know what it means to see Sherlock break into that withdrawn, curious smile, but now he at least knows what it all feels like.

It could have been almost prosaic, at least parts of it, except for the fact that it’s so novel and that this isn’t something they do. And so instead, it feels like a switch has been hit and that the circuits are astable and that it keeps switching back and forth between two different states, fluttering unpredictably and John doesn’t know when he will look at Sherlock and see him, or when he will look at Sherlock and see something he doesn’t recognise, and he doesn’t recognise himself-- 

Sherlock’s scary, befuddled smile dissipates as John begins to move, pulling back - pulling himself halfway out of Sherlock’s body and then pushing slowly back in, breath catching with the intensity and relief of finally moving, of having some friction against his cock and--

And it is prosaic, because John isn’t a romantic when it comes to sex, he knows too much anatomy to see anything about the human body through rose coloured lenses and this is about sex, it’s just sex, except it isn’t, because it’s also an experiment and some very questionable life choices in regards to absurd offers of fucking and it’s all _so_ _Sherlock_.

A pant, a shaky exhale comes from the down on the bed. John closes his eyes, keeps moving slowly in the tightness that surrounds him and listens to the way Sherlock’s control slips and occasional grunts, moans or loud, unsteady pants emerges, joining the sounds of their bodies and the bed as they move.

Another kind of switch, this; to be so aroused that things begin to slide, control begins to slip and thoughts become-- slightly disjointed.

He’s moving faster, thrusting harder, distantly aware that they’re now almost moving together, that Sherlock’s meeting some of his thrusts and arching his body just so. John can hear himself curse, repeatedly, and Sherlock’s breathless groans falls into the unlikely rhythm of the slapping sound as their bodies meeting, the squeaking and creaking of the bed and their panting.

It isn’t easy, and it probably isn’t even convenient in any conventional sense of the word, but it is-- 

John comes, pressing himself as far inside Sherlock as he can get as orgasm jolts through his body and he can feel pulse after pulse as everything around his cock becomes even more hot and more wet and he can breathe and--

Pulling out, John sits back on his heels for a moment, breathing, before he discards the condom with shaky fingers, feeling the surge of prolactin course through his bloodstream and make him heavy, slow.

Sherlock looks-- shagged, for lack of better words. His breath is as uneven and fast as John’s, and his legs slumps down as John sits back, his limbs clearly as shaky and unsteady as John’s. There’s a hazy urgency in his eyes, but he doesn’t make a move to take his still very erect cock in hand, doesn’t seem to--

It’s not something they do, but John does it now, because they’ve done several things they don’t do already, and when John closes his finger around Sherlock’s erection, it does feel alien and awkward, but the way Sherlock’s breath hitches and the way he clearly attempts to but fails to control his reaction is… fascinating.

John looms over him, getting used to the feeling of someone else’s erect penis in his hand and watching as Sherlock’s face contorts with the sensations, scrunching up a bit before going slack, reacting despite his evident attempts to control his reactions.

As Sherlock stills, his whole body tensing up and shuddering, John watches, feeling spurts of warmth running down over his fingers as he keeps stroking, not letting go until Sherlock goes slack, eyes fluttering shut and the last bit of control can be let go off.

It’s sticky and wet, familiar yet foreign, and John wipes it off on the sheets before he lies down heavily on the bed, the narrow space not quite wide enough for them both and their damp skin stick together where they come into contact.

In a few moments time, things will shift again and John isn’t sure where this will find them, isn’t sure what switches they might have flicked during this highly inadvisable, frustrating, raw-- but that’s the thing about risk takers and astable circuits, isn’t it? It’s only to be expected, and they are not idiots, neither of them, regardless of what Sherlock might insinuate.

Somehow, the uncertainity of outcome must have been part of the calculation, of the risk-reward-impulse analysis that they both must have made before ending up here.

Beside him, Sherlock stirs, shifts and stills again, his mind clearly already restless. Within seconds, John will open his eyes and face whatever state they’re in.

Until then, this is what it feels like.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Prequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14596431) by [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe)




End file.
